


Ebb and Flow

by hotmess_ex_press



Category: VIXX
Genre: Definitely OOC, Getting Back Together, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Light Angst, M/M, but i thought i would tag it anyway, like it's so subtle you might not notice it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 14:10:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15607995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotmess_ex_press/pseuds/hotmess_ex_press
Summary: Who is he to miss Taekwoon, anyway? Who is he to want him back, when Taekwoon would be so much better off without him? Wretched, wretched,wretched.Taekwoon deserves love, but Wonshik's could never be worthy. Taekwoon needs someone that makes him want to flourish forever, someone to match his brilliance.Who would Wonshik be, to believe he could give Taekwoon that?





	Ebb and Flow

**Author's Note:**

> asdfkjlajkl this is a mess but i hope you enjoy it

Taekwoon can't find it in himself to be surprised when he greets a rain-mussed Wonshik on his doorstep just after midnight, face all shadowy in the moon's eerie half-light, his tired eyes flickering along with the ghost-like street lamp. He really can't, not when the thought, the silly idea, that Wonshik would come back has tiptoed around the edges of his mind for longer than he'd care to admit, the ridiculous notion he might come back and maybe, _just maybe_ , want to stay.

Wonshik says nothing, just stumbles in and collapses on the couch, empty hands, empty gaze, empty heart. He's asleep in seconds.

Taekwoon lets him be.

 

 

 

The scratchy, grey material of the couch is familiar. So is the tentative sunrise that stretches shy fingers into the quiet corners of Taekwoon's apartment, and the sweet, taunting, inky scent that caresses the air like cherry blossoms against your skin. There are flowers and crumpled, scrawly sheets of paper on every surface. Art still hangs on the spotless walls, and maybe some things never change.

Wonshik didn't want to come back, to this cold, impeccable kingdom. He feels like a gritty stain against the impossible perfection of Taekwoon's life.

But this was the only option. Taekwoon is the only person who wouldn't turn him out, back to the dirty streets and dirtier jobs he's crawling from.

Steady, languid breaths. Wonshik inhales deeply, tries to let the cleanliness around him sweep the smoke out of his soul. He raises one hand above him, flexing his fingers one by one. And, just like everything else, his arm falls back to the couch, to reality, thudding against the cushions uncomfortably. His stomach cramps.

_Guilty, guilty, guilty._

 

 

 

When Taekwoon slips into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee, he sees Wonshik has beaten him to it. It reminds him of the days when that was tradition, when smiling came easier. Wonshik glances at him, then his borrowed mug, then the parking lot outside, gaze like a flippant ray of sunlight, rapidly bouncing from place to place, surface to surface.

"Do you have any money?" Taekwoon asks, leaning against the counter and knowing the answer. Wonshik sets his drink down and stares at his shaking hands.

"No."

"Place to stay?"

"Not really."

A beat.

"Any plans, whatsoever?"

Wonshik chances a peek. Taekwoon's expression is blank. "No plans."

The clock ticks slowly, deafeningly. Taekwoon has always loved the way it seems to echo within itself, calling out for something it misses by just a moment, again and again and again. It never learns. He sighs softly, hums, almost. The sticky, constant rhythm is just like Wonshik. Relentless. Destructively so.

"Wonshik, do you have anything?"

Harsh words, spoken in a tone so simple Wonshik feels ashamed. He can't lie, not now. Taekwoon knows this. There was a time when he knew Wonshik, inside and out. He's not so sure anymore.

"Nothing."

He reaches for his cup, trembling, trembling. It cracks neatly in half when it meets the tile, a puddle growing on the stark white. Taekwoon moves forward.

"Shikkie..."

"Leave it," Wonshik snaps, and he storms out.

 

 

 

"I didn't think I'd see you again," Taekwoon states, unapologetic.

Wonshik flinches away from the words. He flinches away from a lot of things lately. He didn't used to be like this. He can recall a time when everything shrank away from _him_ , him and his stormy tattoos and his heavy footsteps.

"Me, neither," he finally replies.

 

 

 

Taekwoon notices Wonshik's smell, the restless twang of fires and sea salt and dewy herb gardens, hanging in the still air like a merciful blanket of mist. It's strange relief from the bland silence he's become accustomed to.

It's only been a week, give or take, more or less, push and pull, but he's already dreading the inevitable loneliness that will follow Wonshik's disappearance.

_(He won't stay. It's foolish to hope.)_

He's so much darker than he used to be. Taekwoon hasn't heard him laugh once. _Glee_ and _Wonshik_ were once one and the same, his mere presence was a source of comfort and happiness. He was, he was, he was. What is he now? Grief paints his undereyes violet. Or is it exhaustion?

_(I think I love him anyway.)_

Wonshik is asleep now, spread out on that horrid couch. Taekwoon would offer the bed if he didn't know Wonshik would refuse it immediately. He lets his breathing sync up with the younger's, creating harmony effortlessly, perfectly. His lungs burn with the invisible smoke that seems to surround Wonshik. It's a good ache, though. Irresistible.

Wonshik's faded coat is slung over the arm of the sofa. It's one he had back when their lives were still woven together, two halves of a whole. Taekwoon fingers the collar cautiously. Wonshik doesn't move. Nostalgia washes over him, deep and tempting, when Taekwoon pulls the stolen jacket on. It feels almost like the warm, reassuring hugs he hasn't felt in so long. Time sings to linger, stuck in the past for a heart-stopping moment as Taekwoon lets himself remember.

Disgust follows memories as soon as Taekwoon realizes what he is doing, and why he is doing it. He practically rips Wonshik's jacket off of him, letting it spill onto the carpet.

He can't let himself pretend. Pretending is dangerous.

Carefully, Taekwoon drapes the coat over Wonshik's sleeping shoulders, before creeping off to his own bed, where the lines between imagination and sin seem to blur desperately.

He doesn't dream.

 

 

 

Taekwoon is singing.

It's not really words, no lyrics Wonshik can catch. It's just noise, pure and captivating, his voice stretching over notes and emotions like a river flowing over rocks, satiny and enchanting, just right. Wonshik closes his eyes and imagines sinking underneath the bittersweet tune, water cold and sure against his skin, the current gently nudging him along into a blissful state of eclipse. The stream would be infinite, boundless. He lets himself be drawn away, lulled into nothingness by the bewitching pull of Taekwoon's honey voice.

There is darkness, yes, but not the kind that has become synonymous with both his days and his nights. Instead, it wraps around him, full of velvet and secrets and stars.

_Why did I ever leave?_ Wonshik wonders, and the truth pinches his heart in all the wrong ways. _I miss this._

The warm kiss of a crystalline teardrop shocks Wonshik back into the present. He shakes his head, quickly, backing away from the half-closed door his raised fist had hovered over for too many incalculable minutes.

Walk away, walk away. Regret never means anything good.

 

 

 

"Wonshik, how long are you staying here?" Taekwoon questions. It's too late. It's too early. His mind is muddled and slow from not quite enough sleep. He doesn't realize how his words sound until Wonshik stiffens, dry hands pausing in their fidgety motions to grip each other tightly. Taekwoon wants to be the one to pry them apart, rub concerned circles into his palms. Wonshik sighs, low and long.

His guarded tone doesn't quite conceal all the hurt. "I can leave, if you want."

"No," Taekwoon tries to tamp down the pointless panic clutching at his heart and clawing its way up his throat. "That's not what I meant. Wonshik, you know that's not what I meant."

Twitchy fingers yet again. Nervous eyes. There's a lot Taekwoon wants to say, pretty, poetic things that come a lot easier when he's tired and stupidly, hopelessly in love. But he wouldn't dare, not when Wonshik looks like this, so small, a bit frightened and a lot angry. Not when all he can see in Wonshik's eyes is drought, the heart-stoppingly obvious absence of the passion that used to burn so very brightly.

The world has cheated them both.

They were in love.

Now they are nothing more than strangers, acting as one simply for convenience. Taekwoon gives Wonshik as close to a home as he can get, and, in return, receives an antidote to the crippling loneliness that has plagued him all these idle years. Nothing more, nothing less. _(And how close it is to nothing.)_

_(What happened to us?)_

"That's not what I meant," Taekwoon repeats, almost inaudible compared to the rapid pattern his heart lays out.

There's that underlying plea again. The feeble begging that latches onto the spaces in between his words like pitiful thistles catching onto your clothes. Wishing, hoping incessantly that each murmured farewell won't be the last, that Wonshik will always be back at the end of the day, swaying, bruised, bloodied, maybe, but _home_.

Home home home.

_(Come home, Wonshik. Please.)_

 

 

 

A spray of charming blossoms, heavy perfume. Wonshik stands in front of them, more still than he's ever been. They're peonies, maybe. He's not really sure. Taekwoon has always been the expert out of the two of them. _Flower addict_ , he thinks, and shivers a bit in the dewy cool of springtime in the city.

_Haunting._ If Wonshik had to find one word to describe Taekwoon, if he was forced to pick through every furtive line of praise in all of the breathy sonnets dedicated to the ethereal man in his mind, this is the one he would choose. Beauty just isn't enough for him. It could never do justice to his midnight eyes, his gossamer voice, his maddening, feathery touches. Taekwoon is haunting in all of his indefinable glory, his elegant oddness. He is haunting because he will always be there, hovering godlike and dreamy, keeping close to the border between truth and fantasy.

Wonshik moves closer and pulls a few blooms from the bush. Plants won't be the worst thing he's stolen, by far. They'll be good replacement for the wilting lilies on the coffee table.

He starts walking again, and he'd be lying if he said there was a bounce in his step. But he feels lighter, somehow. Just a little.

There's a bridge Wonshik has to cross to get back to the apartment. He pauses there, looks out at the rapidly churning water. Pale, creamy pink dots the tumbling blue-black, frothy petals lost in the wind finding a place once again in the forgiving flow. The cherry trees are blooming, timid and young.

Love is something sacred. Wonshik sees it everyday, in shaky, secret smiles, in the easy comfort between two ancient lovers, in the laughter a group of friends shares at a well-worn inside joke. It's not something to be taken lightly. Wonshik's fingernails dig into his palm. No one deserves love more than Taekwoon, he thinks. The makeshift bouquet of wispy blossoms in his hand suddenly feels heavy, and unexpected anger swells in his chest. Who is he to miss Taekwoon, anyway? Who is he to want him back, when Taekwoon would be so much better off without him? Wretched, wretched,wretched.

He pitches the flowers. They tumble like embellished tears to the river below, neverending dance. They look better in the freezing embrace than his cursed hands, anyway, his scarred, ugly hands.

Taekwoon deserves love, but Wonshik's could never be worthy. Taekwoon needs someone that makes him want to flourish forever, someone to match his brilliance.

Who would Wonshik be, to believe he could give Taekwoon that?

 

 

 

The tiny flame of the candle, clinging tightly to the heat-blackened wick, jumps and quivers with every innocuous current of air. It flutters like a small, fragile bird encased in a sleek glass cage, waxy puddle of lavender-scented purple fanning out before the heat. It's hypnotizing, truly, the subtle, in-and-out dance of the wavering flare.

Taekwoon places the lid onto the jar, the blaze dims, then sputters out, faint chain of smoke curling and folding. He removes the top again and watches as the filmy haze escapes, twining around the rest of the air in the placid room, before dissipating completely.

He envies it, that minute, harmless fire. It dies out in just a few moments without oxygen.

But love, _his_ love for Wonshik, exists and thrives on nothing.

Because here, right now, that's what _they_ could be summed up as. Nothing. The barest of glances, a few effortless, yet pointless sentences exchanged. It's not awkward, he supposes, but it isn't anything else, either. Separate, they are broken, together, they are nonexistent. And isn't that one step further away from complete? They are stuck, suspended in an empty, unforgiving paradox, too caught up in the past to let each other go, too scared of the future to try and create something new.

A light scoff. Or, maybe, Taekwoon is reading too much into it, again. trying to carve a long-dead romance into a fairytale. It's as stupid as trying to ward off a storm with a lit match, and twice as futile.

He stands up, to light the candle once more.

 

 

 

Wonshik had never meant for Taekwoon to find him like this.

Parched and scarlet-soaked on the cold, cold floor of the picture-perfect bathroom. Tear-stained but silent, foggy mind, unseeing eyes. He is too lost to process anything but the wary fingertips tracing shapes onto the flushed skin of his neck, the quiet, repeated call of his name. Flat voice, calm, but Wonshik knows it well enough to recognize the repressed fear. Regret drives itself hard into his skull, persistent and acute. Taekwoon has given him so much. What is he doing, making him worry?

_Useless_ , he reminds himself. _Pathetic_.

He doesn't deserve this, any of it. And yet...

The tiny, meaningless fact that Taekwoon is even here, beside him, right now, despite everything, worms its way into his shattered heart like a chill that settles deep into your bones, sticky and consistent.

He shudders, and it's freezing, absolutely freezing.

But then there are warm lips, chapped lips against his, hands gripping loosely onto his shoulders. It's familiar and gracious and almost, _almost_ warm. Lenient and soft, exactly how it used to be, or maybe a bit better. It strikes him that he should feel guilty, ugly all over again, but hot tears mingle with his own, and Wonshik lets himself drown in the sweet, sweet solace that is everything about Taekwoon.

 

 

 

"I still love you," Taekwoon murmurs.

Wonshik hums, and that's that. The quiet stretches on, settles around them the same way dreams would, or fear. He doesn't reply. But that's alright, it really is. It always will be, because it's _Wonshik_.

He still won't let himself pretend. But maybe, just this once, he'll let himself hope.

 

 

 

"I think he does," Wonshik whispers, to the sky, the moon, the stars, to whichever god matters the most. To the shiny little beetle on the edge of the still-warm roof. To anything and everything that will listen. "He really does love me."

And that scares him. It scares him so, so much, more than the dark and the dead, even more than wanting him back. It makes him long to run far, far away from here, but inch closer all the same. He thinks about touching Taekwoon's hair, seeing if the newly-dyed strands are as soft as they look. Because Taekwoon needs someone who will worship him, cherish and adore him like he is the only thing left to cherish and adore.

Who would he be, to believe he could give Taekwoon that?

Maybe he would just be Kim Wonshik, plain and simple, loving Jung Taekwoon.

The beetle flits away, and a star twinkles. He smiles.

Maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are loved and cherished forever


End file.
